


his cup runneth over

by stone_in_focus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Coda, Drabble, First Kiss, Human Castiel, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, POV Castiel, POV Third Person, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6373576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stone_in_focus/pseuds/stone_in_focus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>stars may no longer light castiel's path, but someone unexpected is waiting to lead him home. </p><p>(or, wherein idgaf what the writers are planning; this is exactly how s11 is supposed to end. and it involves cas with a beard.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	his cup runneth over

It’s several days before Castiel wakes up. He doesn’t realize this until he stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom, where one glance in the mirror reveals the growth of dark, scraggly hairs along his jawline and down his neck. There are more bags under his eyes than he remembers, and he hopes it’s only the dingy lighting overhead turning his skin sallow and pale. 

Not that Castiel should be surprised. The memories he has of Lucifer going toe-to-toe with Amara are nothing more than fragments, but he doesn’t need the flashbacks to know that his grace is gone. In the end, it was simple, really: Amara’s greatest weakness as the embodiment of darkness was, naturally, the presence of light, and nothing shines so bright as an angel’s grace. Lucifer burned Castiel up from the inside out, essentially a bomb powered by nuclear fusion that obliterated every trace of shadow within a hundred-mile radius.

Now, Amara is no more, her so-called bond with Dean destroyed, and Castiel’s head is—blessedly—quiet. He briefly considers if the only reason he survived and not the fallen archangel was because something kept him tethered to his vessel. Something that kept him fighting even when he no longer had the strength to fight.

He glances down as he clutches a hand to his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart. 

Could this mean he has a soul?

Castiel isn’t breathing easy just yet, however, knowing that there are still so many questions left unanswered. Questions that undoubtedly the Winchesters will have waiting for him.

_What the hell, Cas? How could you say yes to the goddamn devil? You’ve made some lousy choices in your day, but…this?!_

Questions he knows that no amount of explaining will ever be enough.

He sighs and washes up, fingers lingering over the razor before opting to keep the beard. It’s easier than remembering how Dean had taught him the correct way to shave; how he had almost drawn blood from his lip to hold back the guttural whimpers as Dean held his chin in place. It’s silly to think that the littlest brush of skin can have the most profound impact, but now that he’s mortal again, he finds himself standing at the edge of the abyss, staring down into the depths of an ache that has been growing inside of him ever since he first made contact with the human soul.

He dares not entertain the thought of how much it would take to fill that touch-starved void. Nor from what _—whom—_ he desperately wants to seek comfort.

Perhaps Dean’s usual practice of imbibing questionable quantities of alcohol to dull the pain isn’t a half-bad idea after all.

Shoulders slumped, Castiel wanders back to the room he was occupying, which doesn’t appear to be the same room Sam and Dean had set up for him while he was recovering from the after-effects of Rowena’s insidious attack dog spell. There’s no TV with Netflix; just a thinly-covered mattress with two pillows and a lump of quilts. One chair pulled up next to the bed with a ratty button-down draped over the back. Empty bottles strewn around a pile of cloth rags on the nightstand, still slightly damp.

Then he looks up and sees the KAZ license plate and carefully arranged weapons across the walls; the bags of rock salt and the slanted wooden cross lying along the shelf.

That’s odd. Why would…?

His stomach interrupts his thoughts, grumbling its discontent as it gnaws at itself. Seems as though curiosity will have to take a backseat to his food cravings, and he makes a beeline towards the kitchen instead, hoping the boys are stocked up on PB&J.

But when he approaches the doorway, the hunger completely slips from his mind.

“Cas?”

A pair of familiar green eyes pop out from behind the refrigerator door, and Castiel freezes, unable to assemble any semblance of coherent thought. It’s Idaho all over again, the sudden surge of warmth and tightness in his chest leaving him reeling.

Luckily, Dean paddles the conversation back to shore. “You’re alive… _awake._ I thought—Jesus, I thought…” He steps forward, almost as if he’s going to reach out, but he ends up letting his hand fall to the side. “Tell me it’s really you.”

Castiel isn’t certain how he’s supposed to respond; what would suffice as reassurance. “It’s me,” is all he says, and it feels painfully inadequate. ( _He_ feels inadequate.) He doesn’t know why Dean should believe him.

Nevertheless, there’s an unusual brightness in his eyes that Castiel hasn’t seen since…

Well, since Idaho.

“Good, good.” Dean chuckles under his breath, chin down as he pops the cap off his beer. “You, uh…it was pretty touch-and-go there for a while. Those must’ve been some nasty nightmares you were having, too. Wasn’t sure if—hell, man, we were this close to calling up a priest and doing it _Exorcist-_ style. Ol’ Luci did not want to let you go.”

Castiel barely remembers the nightmares. The few images that remain of his struggle against Lucifer are little more than broken shards collecting dust in the recesses of his mind…which may be a blessing in hindsight, but…why does _Dean_ know about them?

He decides to put the thought aside for now. “You needn’t worry. Lucifer, albeit unintentionally, sacrificed himself to defeat Amara; whatever you witnessed must have merely been feverish recollections of what transpired during battle. My brother has, as you would say, ‘left the building.’” Castiel pauses before adding, “As has my grace.”

“Oh. Sorry, Cas.” Dean’s gaze lowers towards the floor, sipping at his beer. “Wish we could’ve found some other way. One where we didn’t have to rely on the prince of dicks to be our deus ex machina.”

Castiel’s mouth goes dry, throat constricting. “Dean, you need to know—”

“No, I don’t.”

Castiel knew this moment was coming, but nothing has ever so swiftly knocked the wind out of him, heart thudding in the pit of his stomach. He suddenly yearns for the blissful ignorance of sleep. “You’re angry.” _And we should talk,_ he wants to say, but it’s a miracle he croaked out the two words that he did.

Instead, Castiel watches while Dean paces the room, scoffing as he shakes his head. “Yeah, I’m pissed. But I…” He eventually slows to a stop, propping himself up against the stainless steel islet as he crosses his arms. “I get it.”

Castiel’s eyebrows ease up. He’s still rendered speechless, but not for the reasons he was expecting. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t take a rocket scientist to see how shitty these past few years have treated you. And I guess maybe I…well, I should’ve been around for more of it.”

His feet pad towards Dean, shoulder resting against shoulder. There simply isn’t enough counter space to comfortably lean on; it’s by no means a (pitiful) excuse to touch him. “You had your own problems to deal with. Sam was being held hostage by Gadreel; you had the Mark of Cain…”

“Yeah, and who was responsible for fucking that up, too?”

He nudges Dean gently with his elbow. “You’re not responsible for me or for the choices I make.”

Silence creeps in as Dean appears to mull this over, chugging down more of his chosen swill. “Hmm. Maybe not. But somewhere along the line, something obviously happened that gave you the idea that you couldn’t come to us for help. Maybe it was a buncha things; I dunno. Maybe it started when I was enough of a dipshit to kick you to the curb after Sam almost had his last rites read to ‘im, and it all just went downhill from there. And I mean, I know I’m no friggin’ Mother Teresa, but the fact that I couldn’t pull my head outta my ass long enough to see that you were in it somethin’ deep…Christ, Cas, you shouldn'ta had to go it alone. Any of it.”

“You did your best.” If Castiel’s being totally honest, he’s only reciting the platitude that humans seem so fond of using to placate Dean. He doesn’t want to talk about this; about how much it hurts; about how hopeless it feels to desire the touch of the very man standing next to him. Because like everything else, he could never ask that of Dean. He already bears the world on his shoulders, and Castiel does not want to be the one to break him by throwing his own heart on top of it all.

At least, not again.

Dean snorts. “Well, if that’s s'posed to be me doin’ my best, that makes me a pretty crappy friend.” He polishes off his drink, setting down the beer bottle and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “Cas…you almost fucking _died_ saving my ass from becoming Amara’s eternal love slave. And I don’t look nearly as good in a bikini as Leia does.” 

Castiel purses his lips. He’d like a visual comparison before committing one way or the other. 

“Whatever I did do…it wasn’t enough, Cas. Not anywhere near it.”

The wall clock ticks quietly overhead, but Castiel doesn’t know how many seconds pass before he musters a response. 

“Then what is enough?” 

The words come out hollow, cracking from a weight that Castiel’s not yet ready to acknowledge. He’s barreled into many a situation blind, but never before has he had to face his future with so much uncertainty. No more does he have a cause to bind himself to; no more stars to light his path. What sort of man is he if not a man with a mission? What exactly does his life amount to if he no longer has a purpose? Will Dean and Sam even want him around when he has so little to offer? And once again, he can’t help but envision himself standing at the edge of the abyss, unsure if he has the courage to back away.

Sometimes, he thinks it would be all too easy to fall in.

He jerks out of his daze when he senses movement next to him, realizing that Dean’s managed to inch even closer to Castiel, enough that he can see the dusting of freckles across his face and feel the warmth of his breath on his cheek. 

“I, uh…” Dean’s throat bobs, hands trembling. Why would his hands be trembling? “I-I ain’t never kissed a…a dude before.”

Castiel squints. “How is that relevant to this discussion?”

Dean coughs out a laugh, rubbing at his eyes and licking his lips. “God, Cas, you…”

However, Dean doesn’t finish his thought, nor is Castiel given a moment to form his own. A hand settles at his hip, the tip of Dean’s nose pressing up against his, and Castiel finds himself reaching the apex of his powerlessness as he collapses into the wet, inviting heat of Dean’s parted mouth.

But with palms cupped around a bearded jawline, Dean catches him.

“You, Cas. You’re enough.”


End file.
